“Not the dishwasher again,” she cried, as she entered the kitchen, “Please Calen, you promised you’d at least try to keep a handle on it.”

Calen, 18 years old with scruffy brown hair so dark as to seem black, was stood in the middle of the room, a sheepish look on his face as the dishwasher spewed out streams of green foam.
“I did try, Amelia.” he said in a pathetic voice, “machines just don’t like me.” She narrowed her eyes at him as she pulled out the bucket and mop and began attempting to entice the foam away from her floor.
“I think it’s less that they don’t like you, more that you don’t like them. You have to at least try- when you set the lawnmower running round the garden last week the neighbours were all out watching it…” He bit his lip, a trifle pensieve for once.
“That one really was an accident,” he said, eliciting an eyebrow raise.
“Suggesting,” intoned Amelia, “that this was not?” He grinned, and the dishwasher let out another belch of foam.